


Fate and Circumstance

by Es0terica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 17:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Es0terica/pseuds/Es0terica
Summary: "Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose." In which Abigail is the teacup, and gravity does it job.





	Fate and Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> My first Hannibal story! After watching the entire series, this scene devastated me the most.  
> Disclaimer: I wouldn't know how to profit from this if I wanted to.  
> Enjoy :)

When a teacup shatters, there is a brief moment just before it meets the ground. A moment of expectancy, anticipation. A brief interlude before the inevitable. A keen observer might even say that it happens in slow motion.

From the moment her father first put the knife to her throat, Abigail knew her life would end this way. It wasn’t so much a possibility as it was an inevitability. All those months between that moment and this one were a respite, a mostly unpleasant one at that. It’s always been there, lurking in the background. Sometimes she thought about it, how differently things could have been. If she didn’t answer the phone that day, or perhaps if she recognized the silky smooth tones of a predator asking for her father.

When Hannibal urges her closer, she has a moment of hesitation. But what else can she do? Will is right there with a deep slice in his belly, and she can’t leave him like that. He wouldn’t do that to her. She doesn’t understand why it’s come to this. Hannibal has spoken of the three of them leaving, making a place for themselves somewhere else. But it doesn’t seem to be going that way, and she can’t see this ending well. Not at all.

“Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment.” Her stomach tightens, because she knows. She knows the moment he is referring to. There are too many similarities not to know, she realizes as she takes a look around.

And there he is, holding out a hand. In his other hand is the same weapon that just ripped into Will, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

She could have done without the realization that her father had been feeding her human remains. She would have passed on being hated by everyone she’d known her whole life.

The man who killed her friend, cut off her ear, and kept her in this house takes her hand in a firm grip. His embraces had been a great comfort, once. She remembers when she had asked him how he would kill her, and what he said to her.

“I would have cut your throat like your father did.” She remembers that she knew it wouldn’t be smart to accept him. And then she went and did it. And now she begins to panic as he brings his other hand up and-

She most definitely would have been better off having never met Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

Her blood spurts in a great arc, taking her by surprise. It shouldn’t. It bled like that the last time too. But a part of her didn’t think he’d actually do it. On the ground, Will makes some noise of alarm. She presses her hand to her neck. She thinks it might be deeper than the last time. Ouch.

Hannibal is so much like her father. The manipulation, the murder, the cannibalism. Even the act of taking care of her. Oh, but he knew cruelty far better than her father ever had. He lulled her into a sense of safety. Complacency. And she had been thankful. Even after she knew what he really was and what he’d done. After what he did to her. Because he knew exactly who she was and accepted all of it. She believed that meant that he cared for her. That he would protect her.

So she accepted him for what he was and cared for him in return.

And here is where that care got her: bleeding out on a kitchen floor. Right where it began.

Her father had cared for her too. 

She wishes she had told Will that Hannibal was the man on the phone. Who knows what might have happened, instead of this? She might have been able to keep all her bits. However, she thinks he might make it. Hannibal hadn’t cut the right way to properly gut him. Every skilled hunter knows to slice vertically. Hannibal is a very skilled hunter. Which means the clumsy horizontal maiming was deliberate.

Will Graham is the person she should have trusted. He was sick, but he wouldn’t have hurt her. In all the time she’s known him, he’s seen the best in her, and the worst. He is both a savior and a killer. And so insightful - except when it was most important. He had seen the truth of her, but not of Hannibal. Not until it was far too late. She couldn’t blame him; for all that he was intuitive, Hannibal was just as charming. He was just a man, after all. She worried about him while he was detained, but Hannibal assured her that he would be fine, that this time would allow him to grow. He is too good a person to rot in a cage. She should have stayed with him that day. The day she died and sacrificed her ear. She thinks it might have been very different if she had stayed with him. He could never have become her father, but he could have been something better, even if it was out of guilt, or pity.

She recalls the nights he visited this very house for dinner. She sat around the corner in the other room and listened to them talk while they ate. Voices mingling just feet away. An almost physical yearning to just walk out there and say hello, to announce her existence to Will and Alana and whomever was there that night; while Hannibal was certainly cultured company, it got old after a while, like speaking to a robot dressed up as a man. She never did go out there. Hannibal knew she never would. It would be terrible manners, after all, to show up to a party uninvited. And Hannibal always brought her a portion, served on the same expensive China with which he served the guests. She knew exactly what went into those meals, but she ate it all anyway. Hannibal really was a wonderful chef. And who was she, to refuse a meal from her host? What might have happened, if she acted on those urges? Would Will have rescued her, taken her away from this place? Or would Hannibal have massacred his dinner guests, a task of which she knew he was perfectly capable?

Too late to tell now.

Her fingers are slippery from all the blood, and inevitably her hand slips from her neck as she gasps. Her heart pounds harder as panic overwhelms her sense, forcing the blood from her artery ever quicker.

And then, like an angel, there he is. Again. Will’s hand is on her neck, pushing to stem the flow, just like before. He meets her eyes for a split second, and in his gaze she sees desperation. He doesn’t want her to die, despite what she’s done, all the lies she’s told. Even as he lies there gutted, he’s trying to save her. Yes, Will is a good man. She is immensely glad she got to see him one last time. She only wishes it were under better circumstances.

She thinks, if he had managed to save her for good, he might have offered her a room in his house. He would not have confined her inside when he left for the day. He might have taught her how to fish; he would not have told her to kill anyone. He might even have cooked for her; he definitely would not have used human meat. She thinks, if she had gone with him, she would have grown to love his dogs, despite her being more of a cat person.

He might have grown to love her the way a father should love his daughter; he would never have cut open her throat.

Inevitably his hand, too, slips. She can’t blame him. He must be feeling quite weak with all the blood he’s lost.

In fact, she is feeling quite weak herself. Will is disappearing before her eyes, the brown curls on his head blurring into a dark round shape. There’s a fuzzy ringing in her ears, ambient sounds swimming in a disorienting fashion. Her blood is leaking to form a great pool beneath her, her skin a latex balloon with a hole poked right through the thin, delicate membrane.

Here she is, full circle. There’s a kind woman dead  on the front porch and Will Graham at her side, and her neck has been cut open by a man who was supposed to protect her. She wishes it could have all gone any other way, and yet. And yet, she doesn’t think there was ever any other ending for her. Ever since she first heard his voice, and instead of recognizing it for the predator’s purr it had been, she thought he had a nice accent.

It must be fate, she thinks. Because what are the odds, otherwise? It’s almost like she never truly left that moment in her kitchen at all. The same characters, the same cut.

Her heart slows as it runs out of blood to pump. The end creeps up like the darkness following a sunset: it takes her slowly, and then all at once.

Time, like a river, flows in one direction. Although a stray rock or fallen tree may create a fork, split the river in two, it still must flow downhill, bending to the almighty will of gravity. Interference such as rocks and trees only delay the inevitable. They may divert the path, but the destination remains the same.

Even an instance happening in slow motion must come to an end.

When the teacup shatters, it does not put itself back together.

It is irrevocably ruined, broken beyond repair. A very regrettable mess, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you've read or written any good Murder Family fics, hmu. I love glimpsing what could have been.


End file.
